Mountain idylls, and Other Poems Part 3

[B] San Miguel, p.r.o.nounced "Magill," the Spanish form of St. Michael.

To Mother Huberta.

_As repeated in chorus on the anniversary of her Names-day by the Sisters of St. Hubert at St. Anthony's Hospital, Denver, Col., Oct. 29, 1900._

Mother, our greetings be to thee, On the glad anniversary Of this, thy festive day; Thy daughters, daughters not of earth, But bound by cords of Heavenly birth, Their love and greetings pay.

We thank thee, Mother, for thy care, Thy watchfulness, and fervent prayer; And if 'tis Heaven's will, May many a returning year And namesday find our Mother here, Constant and watchful still.

Blest be that autumn brown and sere!

Bless-ed the day and blest the year, Of his[C] nativity!

Blest be the hospitals, which rise, Resultant of thy enterprise, Thy zeal and fervency.

Blest be that hunter[D] saint of thine!

Bless-ed the deer, and blest the sign Between its antlers broad!

To us, thy daughters, is it given To bless thee, in the name of Heaven, And blessing thee, bless G.o.d.

FOOTNOTES:

[C] St. Hubert.

[D] St. Hubert, the apostle of Ardennes, a saint of the Roman Catholic Church, the patron of huntsmen. He was of a n.o.ble family of Acquitaine.

While hunting in the forests of Ardennes he had a vision of a stag with a shining crucifix between its antlers, and heard a warning voice. He was converted, entered the church, and eventually became Bishop of Maestricht and Liege. He worked many miracles, and is said to have died in 727 or 729. Spofford's Cyclopaedia, Vol. 4, page 470.

Suggested by a Mountain Eagle.

I gazed at the azure-hued mantle of heaven, The measureless depths of ethereal s.p.a.ce; I gazed at the clouds, so invisibly driven, And an eagle, which wheeled with symmetrical grace.

I gazed at that eagle, majestically wheeling, With dignity, born of the free mountain air; I envied that bird, with an envious feeling Which springs from a heart that is shackled with care.

I envied that eagle, which bowed to no master, But soared at his will, through the ambient skies, Defiant of danger, and scorning disaster, He screamed at the cliffs, which re-echoed his cries.

I envied that bird, on that fair summer morning, When nature lay decked with spontaneous art, As he circled, with aspect defiant and scorning, And perched on a pinnacle's loftiest part.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "And by the mountain crystal lake A rustic habitation make."

TROUT LAKE, SAN MIGUEL COUNTY, COLORADO.]

And scanning the scene with a stern indecision, He spread his dark wings, with intuitive cries, And sped, till acute and inquisitive vision Discerned but a movable speck in the skies.

When the shades of the evening, so listless and dreary, Descend on the valley, his wing never flags, As through the dark shadows he soars to his eyerie, Which nestles among the impregnable crags.

Ah! fain would I rise on thy feathery pinions, Above the material cares of the day, And float over earth's most enchanting dominions, As clouds, by the zephyrs, are wafted away!

The Silvery San Juan.

Wherever I wander, my spirit still dwells, In the silvery San Juan[E] with its streamlet and dells; Whose mountainous summits, so rugged and high, With their pinnacles pierce the ethereal sky; Where the daisy, the rose, and the sweet columbine Blend their colors with those of the sober hued pine; Where the ceaseless erosions of measureless time, Have chiseled the grotto and canon sublime; Have sculptured the cliff, and the stern mountain wall; Have formed the bold turret, impressive and tall; Have cut the deep gorge with its wonderful caves, Sepulchral and gloomy; whose vast architraves Support the stalact.i.tes, both pendant and white, Which with the stalagmites beneath them unite; Where nestles a valley, sequestered and grand, Worn out of the rock by the same tireless hand, Surrounded by mountains, majestic and gray, Which smile from their heights on the Town of Ouray.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Where the ceaseless erosions of measureless time, Have chiseled the grotto and canon sublime."

BOX CAnON, LOOKING INWARD, OURAY, COLORADO.]

Wherever I wander, my ears hear the sound Of thy waters, which plunge with a turbulent bound O'er the precipice, seething and laden with foam; My ears hear their music wherever I roam; Where the cataract's rhapsody, joyous and light, Enchants in the morning and soothes in the night; Where blend the loud thunders, sonorous and deep, With the sobs of the rain as the black heavens weep; Where the whispering zephyr, and murmuring breeze, Unite with the soft, listless sigh of the trees; And where to the fancy, the voices of air Wail in tones of distress, or in shrieks of despair; Where mourneth the night wind, with desolate breath, In accents suggestive of sorrow and death; As falls from the heavens, so fleecy and light, The winter's immaculate mantle of white; Wherever I wander, these sounds greet my ears, And the silvery San Juan to my fancy appears.

FOOTNOTES:

[E] p.r.o.nounced San Wan. Spanish form of St. John.

As the Shifting Sands of the Desert.

As the shifting sands of the desert Are born by the simoon's wrath, And in wanton and fleet confusion, Are strewn on its trackless path; So our lives with resistless fury, Insensibly and unknown, With a restless vacillation By the winds of fate are blown; But an All-Wise Hand May have changed the sand, For a purpose of His own.

As the troubled and turbulent waters, As the waves of the angry main, Respond with their undulations To the breath of the hurricane; So our lives on Time's boundless ocean Unwittingly toss and roll, And unconsciously drift with the current Which evades our a.s.sumed control; But a Hand of love, From the skies above, May have guided us past a shoal.

Ephemeral, mobile, and fleeting, Our delible paths we tread; And fade as the crimson sunset, When the heavens are tinged with red; As the gorgeously tinted rainbow Retains not its varied dyes, We change, with the constant mutation, Of desert, of sea, and skies; But the Hand which made, Knows each transient shade, Which pa.s.ses before the eyes.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Which smile from their heights on the town of Ouray."

OURAY, COLORADO.]

Missed.

Pity the child who never feels A mother's fond caress; That childish smile a void conceals Of aching loneliness.

Pity the heart which loves in vain, What balm or mystic spell Can soothe that bosom's secret pain, The pain it may not tell?

Pity those missed by Cupid's darts, For 'twas ordained for such, Who love at random, but whose hearts Feel no responsive touch.